


Twisted

by mistakeandcheese



Category: Classicaloid (Anime)
Genre: Bullying, Cute, Funny, Hair, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rescue, Sweet, beethoven being a grumpy coffee monster, beethoven is socially awkward, featuring: beethoven's 60 beans, meow, mozart being a dick, mozart pranking, poor schu, schube gets half a tramp stamp, schubert has a huge crush on beethoven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 00:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistakeandcheese/pseuds/mistakeandcheese
Summary: Schubert wakes up with his hair tied to the bed. How long does he have before Mozart wreaks more havoc? Embarrassed as he may be, he needs Beethoven's help.





	Twisted

Schubert woke up pondering the significance of the dream he had had--no, not _that_ part of his dream--but rather the part where pink spiders were crawling across his scalp, as an ominous, evil giggle echoed somewhere out of sight. 

No matter, he supposed. He finally had his own bed; it was probably natural that strange dreams would haunt him on the first couple of nights. He yawned and curled upward to start his new day.

“ _Uah!_ ” a pained yelp parasailed from his lips and he flopped back against the mattress, scalp prickling. His hair was tied to the bars of the headboard.

MOZART. Schubert felt an angry spasm seize his soul. What was this? Some sort of initiation into the secret society of humans who sleep in beds? Was Mozart angry because Schubert had finally gotten his own room--the bigger one--right next door? Pathetic. As Franz reached up to fiddle with the hard knots made in his silky ginger strands, he thought of all the horrible things that man deserved. Eviction, probation, castration‒were not the limit of his list. How old was Wolfgang now? 262? It was time he started acting his age. And by that Schubert meant dead.

As his fingernails slipped repeatedly against the ruthless knots, worry began to displace his frustration. Would he ever escape this? And when, pray tell, did the bubblegum schemed fiend intend to wake up, and check in on his handiwork? Oh, the embarrassment! The shame! And the danger. What other crime might the ruffian commit if he found Schubert lying here, immobile, vulnerable, with no armour but boxers he had fallen asleep in? His breath shuddered as he imagined a feral, masked creature with scraggles of unkempt pink hair, clawing open his exposed belly, chewing on his intestines gleefully as his lifeless body twitched and tore, staining the sheets with blood.

He needed help, and yet if he called for it, he would undoubtedly awake the pink beast slumbering next door.

And then he heard a creak of a floorboard, a shuffle of feet, and tired morning grumble of “Need...coffee…”

A flurry of schmetterlings seemed to explode in Schubert’s ribcage. Here was a chance for salvation--but alas!--at what cost? Might he prefer to die a quick and violent death, if the alternative were the eternal shame of having exposed the venerable genius, Ludwig van Beethoven, to the pitiful scene which was his currently compromised position? 

The disdain for Mozart’s potential victory overwhelmed him.“Beethoven‒senpai,” he croaked, tempering his volume to avoid awaking the undesirable. “Beethoven‒senpai, please, come here.”

No response. 

“Senpai, please!” his voice cracked as he tried to raise it, and his desperation broke through.

A rough, annoyed grumble emanated from the hallway.“Silence, boy. It is too early for this.”

The sound of footsteps slouching grouchily down the stairway faded away. And then there was a creak from next door.”Schuu‒kun?” 

Schubert’s throat contracted. Wolfgang had awoken. The end was nigh.

There was a childish giggle. “Schuu‒kun? Are you seriously right where I left you? That’s hilarious!”

Schubert breathed hard out his nose. He couldn't even lift his head to look at the other composer, so he stared vehemently at the innocent ceiling as he proclaimed “You are the scourge of the Earth, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.” 

“Ooh! I know the perfect thing for this!” The sound of Mozart's laughter filled Schubert's gut with horror as he heard the other composer sprint back into his own room, dig around, and then fly back with something in hand. 

The bed creaked as Mozart hopped eagerly onto it, crawling savagely over to Schubert and swiftly straddling him with his knees.

“Hm" Mozart contemplated, tapping his chin with the thick, oily Sharpie marker. “What should I draw, Schuu‒kun? Your body is the perfect canvas.”

Like a fish convulsing upon the deck of a ship, Schubert arched his back and flailed his arms up to defend against his capturer. “No. Get off me! Get _off.”_

He took a swipe at Wolfgang’s face, and the other composer grinned like it was a game as he wrangled Schubert's arms and pushed them forcefully back down into the mattress. Schubert struggled, but gravity was against him. Panting, he glared up at those beady blue eyes hatefully. 

“Unhand me you dog.”

“Meow?”

“Don’t ‘meow’ me you ruffian--”

“I know: Boobs!” Mozart interrupted, perking with inspiration.

“No! Wolfgang, that’s utterly--"

But Mozart just laughed and drew two huge circles over Schubert's chest. Squirming with mortification, Schubert felt the pungent felt tip trace a smaller ring around each of his nipples. “Look, they’re almost as good as Liszt's!” The devil snickered, securing his grip on Schubert’s arms as the younger man let out a frustrated screech and relaunched the struggle underneath him. “Uh uh, patience, Schuu‒kun. This masterpiece needs an accompaniment. How about...weiners!” A sly, teasing grin spread across Mozart’s face, as if he knew something that he knew he wasn’t supposed to. “You’d like that, wouldn't you Schuu?”

Schubert felt his face heat up outingly. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

Mozart giggled, and in one swift motion, scribbled a dick on Franz’s forehead. Schubert snarled, and tried to shove his tormentor off again, only to be defeated, and marked again on his cheek, his belly, his shoulder. He wanted to shout more abuse at Mozart, but his windpipe had started to tighten in that way windpipes do before they make their owners cry. Mozart was laughing almost to the point of flatulence, and as Schubert soon discovered, he wasn't yet done.

“And now for the grand finale--tramp stamp!” The composer sang, grabbing hold of Schubert’s waist and rolling him onto his belly. Schubert felt the nerves on his scalp catch fire as every single hair was twisted against him.

“Ah! It hurts--let g--" as he tried to push himself up, his demand for release was stifled by his getting pushed front first down onto the mattress.

“Let’s see" Mozart pondered indulgently, pressing the tip of the marker against the portion of back right above Schubert's butt. “‘Property...of...Beet--’"

Mortification swallowed Schubert’s soul whole. His voice ripped terrifiedly through his sticky throat as he screamed into the mattress and felt tears burn at the edges of his tightly shut eyes.  
_“Mozart-san, please don’t!”_

Suddenly there was a thud downstairs, and the sorry sound of sixty beans scattering across the floor. Thunder rumbled up the stairway, and before either of them had a chance to blink, Ludwig van Beethoven was howling at the bedside, ripping the two of them apart, and throwing Mozart to the floor. “YOU RUINED MY SIXTY BEEEEANS!” the white‒haired eccentric roared. “AND FOR THAT YOU SHALL _PAY.”_

Schubert heard Wolfgang hiss like a cat and scrabble backwards as a boot smashed into the floor, right where his stomach had been. “Yeesh Beets, you almost-- _uaak!_ ” A chipped coffee mug smacked him in the face, and he began rolling dramatically across the floor. “Man down, man down!” He hollered, still rolling. “Looks like it’s up to you Schuu-kun!” And with that he rolled out the door.

Schubert was on his knees and elbows, covering his head with his hands, and trying to gulp down his quickening breaths. He knew it was only his yell which could have been loud enough to cause Beethoven to drop his beans.“I’m sorry, Beethoven‒senpai. I’m sorry I made you drop your beans.”

“As you should be, boy.” Beethoven agreed, crossing his arms over his chest. “To jar the wheel of fate with--with…” Frowning, Ludwig lost the thread of what he was saying. “Schubert, you're shaking like a man who has consumed 61 beans. And what’s that on your back? Uncover your face, boy, you’re so muffled I can barely hear you.”

Dreading the inevitable, Schubert tilted his face against the mattress and winced up at Beethoven with red, tearstained eyes. 

Beethoven blinked, his social cogs seeming to creek slowly into motion. His tone softened. “Hush, Franz. I’ll help you.” The bed springs squealed as Beethoven sat down. “Turn to your back, boy. The hair is twisted.”

Tremidiciously, Schubert felt his scalp relax and his heart contract as he rolled over, to see Ludwig van Beethoven sitting at his bedside. 

Beethoven's eyes darted briefly to the breasts traced on Schuu’s chest. Schubert thought he saw a tint of red come to the composer’s face, followed by a crease of disapproval. “Wolf calls this cruelty pranking.” Beethoven observed, laying his hands gently upon Schubert’s hair. 

As Beethoven began fiddling with the knots, the schmetterlings from before were performing full fledged kamikaze in Schubert’s chest. As much as he liked having longer hair, he hated himself for making Beethoven sit here and waste so much of his precious time.“Would you rather use scissors, Senpai? It would be...quicker.”

Beethoven was staring down at the hair with a single minded concentration. “The path to victory is not through speed, but obstinance.” He announced gruffly. “And besides, I haven't clipped my nails since the girl last made me. I am well suited to this task.”

As Beethoven set about his work, Schubert laid there and watched a characteristic blaze of focus settle across his Senpai’s features. It was amazing. It was as if Beethoven were dedicating himself to a new piece of music, and Schubert happened to _be_ it. But this sense of awe was intermingled with his horror at forcing his senpai to come to his aid. It took nearly an hour before Franz was freed. When the final bit of tension across his scalp was finally relieved, he stood up, and bowed stiffly in front of Beethoven. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Beethoven-senpai.” 

There was a pause. And then a hand settled curiously on the top of his head. It lingered there, almost awkwardly. The fingers twitched once, as if they wanted to nestle themselves back amongst the strands. Schubert’s heart fluttered. And then it exploded with joy when Beethoven said: “You are welcome. It was all Mozart’s fault, anyways.”


End file.
